Defect in the Losing Side
by cacaepica
Summary: Sherlock Holmes realizes that his newfound empathy can have severe consequences on his psyche when he is manipulated with a threat to kill John Watson. Oneshot lots of angst Warning/ MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH


A full sun shone onto the pavement of the London streets- a rarity in the city's drab and monotonous summers. The temperature had to be at least 25 degrees Centigrade- of course, this didn't deter the pale-eyed, dark-haired man from donning his dark, sweeping mantle.

Sherlock Holmes squinted at the sun angrily and stamped his foot, eliciting annoyed glances from passer-by. "Sunny and happy is boring," he muttered. "It is simply just a sentiment the ordinary embrace because of their…" He flicked his hand irritably. "... Normalcy."

As soon as his words ended, he could almost hear his flatmate's light voice teasing his thoughts. ' _And you don't enjoy the warmth of such a pleasant day?_ ' it said, tone amused and playful.

Sherlock's lips raised into a slight smile at the thought of his friend chiding him so. "No, John," he spoke, a little too loudly for the irritated people standing near him. "I like my coat, and I'd prefer not to get heatstroke and die."

The dark haired man laughed to himself softly as he closed his soft eyes. In his mind, he envisioned John, the weathered yet gentle soldier, with those beautiful blue eyes, sharp jaw, and-

Sherlock's eyes snapped open in sudden realization, still swaying from his reverie.

 _Where is John?_

The detective had asked him to go to the grocery store to pick up bleach and vinegar for another experiment. John had laughed, still flustered at these supply runs, and he'd promised to be back at the flat within twenty minutes.

 _I better go find him, that moron…_

Despite the gruff voice inside his head, a spark of concern lit up inside his stomach, sending an unusual pang through his chest.

o-o

Twenty minutes later, the ache in his heart had worsened, blurring Sherlock's crisp observations and stifling his collected thoughts. His pace had also unconsciously quickened and his breathing was shallow.

It wasn't a feeling the analytical, hard man was used to.

 _How far did he go from the store? I just said vinegar and bleach!_

He turned the corner of the street next to the store and immediately stopped cold at what he saw.

The dropped grocery bag was filled with the supplies- Clorox brand bleach and white wine vinegar- accompanied by a dark smear of blood.

Shaking, he knelt down and touched the crimson drops.

 _Still fresh- I'd say about ten minutes old, judging by the intensity and wetness of the stain._ His normally quick deductions were further blurred as his mind continued to spin. _A small flesh wound caused by a pocketknife_ -

He stepped back, his breathing ragged, his eyes widened. There was one conclusion that seemed to be the most likely. _Oh God, oh-_

A sudden blow to the back of the head turned his shuddering world into night.

o-o

The dark haired man woke in dizzying darkness to find a knife held to his throat. He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, and carefully began to deduce the situation.

That was interrupted by a quick jab to his trachea, throwing him off balance and shutting down his frenzied brain. "Shush, my dear Sherlock," came a terrifyingly recognizable voice from a little ways away, full of poised insanity.

"James Moriarty." He could barely get the words out as a lantern clicked on, revealing the faintly smirking creature awaiting him in what appeared to be a two meter wide hallway. Sherlock's voice seemed to elevate an octave: "You died; I saw you die-"

Moriarty let out a disapproving noise as another fist from the other man crashed into the detective's sharp cheekbone, releasing a dark splatter of blood. "You know," the consulting criminal continued, crudely enjoying his prisoner's exhausted expression, "I find physical interrogation to be boring. I rather enjoyed dying in front of your eyes and seeing the consequences, the emotions you silly things had. Physical violence is only the tip of the iceberg you know, especially with…"

A door off to the side burst open, and two figures rolled out with a crash. One held a gun to the other's head; it was very clear who the hostage was, with his blue eyes, sable hair, and terrified expression.

"Your Watson."

Sherlock's face contorted in uncharacteristic agony, his pale eyes welling with fury, helplessness, and fear. Moriarty, upon seeing this, clicked his tongue . "Like I said last time we were in Barts," he sneered, "you're ordinary, just like the lot of them. With the angels."

The detective immediately morphed his face back into a cold mask, shocking his foe from across the room. "I'm done with your repetitive games," he stated simply, folding his hands together with precision. "What must happen for John Watson to live?" He added hotly, "I don't think I'll be jumping off this building again; it was rather dull that last time."

Moriarty's face was dumbstruck, and at first, Sherlock thought he couldn't think of anything to say back. Then the man began to laugh intensely, almost doubling over with his twisted fits. The very sound, though earnest, sent a palpable chill through the room, and Sherlock shivered despite himself.

"No, you moron," he exclaimed as he wiped a tear from his dark right eye and stood up. "Why would I repeat myself, set a pattern? You, you, of all people should know why."

"Why?"

Moriarty's smile was filled with a sick mixture of malice and innocence. In a sing-song voice, he whispered, "The east wind has come… " His voice hung in the stale air, cold and unforgiving.

Before Sherlock could utter his sister's name, the stairs to the roof were revealed in a shaft of four o'clock sunlight, and John and his captor instantly disappeared from Sherlock's view.

Moriarty stared up at the shaft, eyes intently fixed on the building's roof. "Now Eurus was an interesting girl," he muttered, "who was so, delightfully, unordinary. She gave me my ideas all those years ago, and so I act on and with her behalf."

Sherlock thought of his psychotic, dead-eyed little sister, who was now mute and non threatening unlike before. He said nothing as his shifting eyes scanned his best friend's path to the roof, trying to work out some solution.

Moriarty suddenly leaned in until his nose almost touched the detective's, as the latter's captor dug the knife in deep enough to draw blood. "Oh Sherlock," he cooed, "Vatican cameos can't save him this time. I'll kill him if you say that."

Sherlock's pale sea foam gaze met his nemesis' mad, dark one, with raw intensity and challenge. "Then what do I say?" he coolly inquired.

The consulting criminal's face contorted into a very inhuman smile, mere centimeters away from his rival's dark face. "I've always found love to be an interesting thing, especially with your case. The poor, heartless detective falling in love with his best friend and flatmate-"

"What do I say?" Sherlock's eyes remained cold and collected, at odds with his hands trembling in fear. _He knows of my affections_.

"Tell him you don't care for him, and he will live knowing that he's been a clever lie, an interesting experiment of the great Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty blinked slowly, lazily- a reptilian gesture. "This is your fall, Mr. Holmes. It's one you won't trick me out of."

Sherlock's visage rippled with fear and anger as he was jerked up and out to the roof of St. Bart's Hospital.

o-o

The dark haired detective's face was pushed down into a concrete cinder block, but although his vision was partially blocked, he could still make deductions based on the scene set in front of him.

 _John is approximately twelve meters away from my location. Based on his collected yet fearful expression, he has no knowledge of Moriarty's setup, but anticipates some sort of trap_. His slender mouth pursed in displeasure. _It's just what the spider likes…_

He heard the footsteps of the spider sound behind him, and Sherlock shivered when Moriarty's lips touch his pale cheeks with calculated delicacy. "Tell him, Sherlock, tell him," he whispered coldly, leaving behind a kiss that burned with heartlessness and amusement.

He was unceremoniously shoved forward in the direction of his best friend. John immediately spotted the dark curls and dashed over, his brow furrowing in worry. "Sherlock!" he cried, wrapping his arms around the black coated shoulders.

This heartwarming embrace only reminded Sherlock of the unseemly act he was about to perform, and he immediately peeled himself away from the warm arms of the brunet. The latter cocked his head to the side, then threw his arms around him again, burrowing his head into Sherlock's chest this time. "I'm so confused; I was walking home, and I was attacked…"

John's voice faded into static as the taller man struggled to get the words to the tip of his mouth. Why had he developed affections for his warm, soft flatmate? Why had he gotten himself into a web of Moriarty's own making?

He didn't want to think anymore as he sank to the ground, eyes shut, moaning in exhausted pain. _Why did I develop these emotions?_

"Sherlock?" The brunet's clear eyes burned into his conscience, refusing to leave, refusing to deny his friend his attention, which only made Sherlock's heart burn in more grief.

Despite that, the detective stood back up, eyes reverting back to clear aquamarine and sharp crystal. "John," he said, clasping his hands behind his back, "you should know something that I've been meaning to say for a while now."

"What?" The brunet's gaze was simple and gentle, yet it cracked Sherlock's pulsing heart even further.

"I don't care for you." The lie slipped out of his lips as easily as any truth, but truths didn't taunt him like this. He watched, eyes holding together in an impressive facade, as John's eyes turned commandeering and raging.

John grabbed his arm tightly enough to break a bone, eliciting a tiny intake of breath from the taller man. "Whatever you're doing, Sherlock-"

"It's true." More words poured out of his lips like the Thames, flowing with ease and polluted with untruths. "I truly do not care for you at all. I was simply experimenting with neurotypical human emotions and seeing their effects on someone who was willing to receive my tests."

The brunet's breathing became increasingly sharp and labored. "Sherlock," he snarled, "so you've been playing with me, flirting with me, taking me on your cases, all for the sake of your sick life?"

Sharp words raced out of his dry mouth. "Yes; do keep up, Watson."

Another bridge burned with that cruel lie. Sherlock tasted bitterness in his mouth as he watched his best friend trembling with shock. _Please, I don't mean any of this_ , he willed his face to express, feeling his mind falling into a dark world, a world without the love and companionship of John Watson.

"You've manipulated me." John's face was twisted in rage, the face of a man who was seeing his entire world collapsing before his eyes. "And I thought… I thought you'd regain your humanity," he whispered. "I thought…"

Trembling with repressed emotions, John raised on his toes and touched the detective's pale cheek with a butterfly-light kiss.

"... I thought I could love you…"

Sherlock remained still, but his eyes involuntarily clouded with anger, grief, distress at Moriarty's insane tactics.

He heard himself speaking, but it all seemed like a hazy nightmare; he was suspended in limbo, and his body was spinning out of control and into a dark cloud of fear. "As I said to Irene Adler, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Your attempt to seduce my defenses-"

"I'm not trying to seduce the great Sherlock Holmes," the brunet hissed, jerking back away from his companion as if the latter were the repulsive creature the former had first met. In a way, Sherlock noted numbly, he _had_ reverted back into the callous, indifferent man he was before Baker Street.

 _I just want to save you from my demons, from Moriarty, my friend._

John shook his head and turned his back on his former best friend. "I'm done with you. I thought you were a good man now," came the bitter voice, the tone that had lost all of its good humor and soft kindness Sherlock had grown to know. Without turning back at the dark haired man, without another word, John Watson walked towards the stairs, finally severing the bond in between them.

Sherlock stared after him, pale eyes welling with weary pain. _Was that a good enough performance, James Moriarty? Have I pleased you so?_

Suddenly, with a sudden crack, the brown haired, former best friend of Sherlock Holmes fell sharply to the ground, blood pooling from the unmistakable bullet wound of a sniper's precise aim.

"No!" Sherlock tried to shout, but the scream died in his throat as Moriarty jumped down from a nearby banister and casually strolled over to John's motionless figure.

The spider's face was perfectly cold. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, dear Sherlock," he quietly stated, the wind ruffling his immaculate suit jacket. "I especially enjoyed how you referenced the Woman. The posh boy loves the dominatrix, after all."

Sherlock's brain, normally so sound in the wake of catastrophe, had fractured into thousands of razor edged pieces, cutting into his numb chest with savage attacks. However, the only thing that was expressed outward was a strangled "Why?"

Moriarty adopted a mock look of joviality and smiled broadly. "I'm just so changeable!" he exclaimed, reminding Sherlock of the other time he'd manipulated the Baker Street pair to try and kill them. "And now, one of you have finally died. Maybe you'd like to join him?" he added, a malevolent smile lighting up on his face.

Sherlock expected himself to step to the side of the roof and to hurl himself off, dying as soon as he hit the ground, covering himself with more blood and debris. He wanted to scream, wanted to die and apologize to his John Watson.

It didn't happen like that.

The detective's mind reeled its control back in, snapping into a cool and steady stream of consciousness. He could almost hear his brother chiding him snappily. ' _You have no place to die because of a human being's death, brother mine.'_

 _'Control yourself, Sherlock Holmes. Listen to your own advice.'_

Silence, broken only by the wind, ensued.

When Sherlock looked back up at his archenemy, his gaze had become the hard jade that it was seven years ago. "Why would he matter?" he asked, his lanky body poised and controlled.

He no longer recognized himself as he watched Moriarty turn on his heel and walk back down to the stairwell. After a few seconds, Sherlock followed suit, never once turning back to look at John Watson's blood splattered body.

o-o

It was now 4:56 pm- just thirty minutes after the brunet's death- as the dark haired man elegantly strode into his flat, completely alone.

He set down his recovered bag of supplies and took the bleach out, inadvertently brushing the bloodstain he didn't bother to clean off.

As he stared at his waiting supplies, a brief image of himself drinking the detergent liquid flashed through his mind. He sat there, unmoving- almost catatonic in his thoughts.

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

"What sentiment?" he inquired out loud, moving his head to stare at his former flatmate's usual chair.

No reply came, yet the detective continued on as if he were responding to his flatmate's words.

"Why did I ever listen to you?" Despite the seemingly accusational words, his composure remained rigid and his tenor voice stayed flat. "Pro social emotions are irrational, yet the foolish neurotypical population still relies on them to make informed decisions that actually matter."

' _Why did you try to save me, Sherlock?'_ The dark image of his motionless companion filled his cold mind again.

"I was an idiot to be swept into the emotions that boring people have," he muttered, pushing the mental image out of his thought. "I became weak, unfocused, and ineffective. What do humans have to benefit from empathy?"

No response came.

The lone, shadow clad man simply sighed and turned back around to blankly gaze at the open curtains. Sunlight still spilled and splashed gold over the gray concrete, contrasting with the feather light, broad skies.

Sherlock Holmes simply observed the mockingly cheery environment outside the stillness of his flat, his turquoise eyes piercing through the dusty, dark air.

 _How ironic this strange world is._

Almost involuntarily, a single tear rose to the surface of his right eye, trailed down his still face, and melted into the silent floor of 221B Baker Street.


End file.
